When will we learn to stop drinking four pints on a Thursday?

It’s a Thursday, your day finishes a bit later than expected. But that’s fine, you’ve got one day left till the weekend. And you’re going out tomorrow night. Then Dave texts you.

“Alright mate, fancy a few beers tonight? Meet you in an hour if you want? There’s a few of us going.”

And so it begins. You’ll regret this, but that doesn’t cross your mind right now. Right now, you’ve had a long day and you could do with an alcoholic lager beer.

You find yourself drinking the first pint in a flash and the third comes along as quickly as the second left. It’s getting late but conversation is flowing, you’re all taking the piss out of Sophie for her behaviour last weekend and the bar staff are flirting outrageously with you and your mates. You order a fourth. Game over.

The fourth pint sends you over the edge. Four pints is roughly pre drink levels – you’re drunk enough to go and drink some more, drunk enough that you’ll notice it the next day. But not tonight, you’ve got a lot to do tomorrow. Everyone goes home, four sheets to the wind, giggling and stumbling around 12:30.

The last time you did this, you didn’t eat anything. You woke up at 5am, ravenous and thirsty. You ate some stale bread with a heaping of peanut butter, making your mouth even drier. You downed two pints of water and stole the last of your housemate’s grated mature cheese. It didn’t hit the spot. You retire to your bed, sweating, groggy and catch a few more zs. Your alarm goes off and you realise just how fucking awful you feel. It’s like there’s two iron pins being screwed through your temples. It’s torture, and you only had four pints.

Not this time. Go hard. Doner and chips please boss. £6 later, jumper stained in chilli and garlic sauce, mouth heaving with the scent of Bangalore rubbish heap, you stagger home, leaving a trail of chips and salad in your wake. You down a pint of water, go to sleep and wake up four hours later to down another. And when you wake up, the temple screwing pain continues.

You don’t even get drunk enough, or spend enough time out, to look back and think how classic the night was. You can’t even ride your bike home without getting hit by a taxi. Why do we do it? Y When have we ever stopped and said, “No Dave, last time you said this we all had four pints and felt like shit the next morning. Do you know how long it took to find my keys this morning Dave? 20 minutes Dave! And they were in my pocket!” Why won’t we stop drinking four pints on a Thursday?